The Favorite
by SilverSentinal21
Summary: Hetty insists that she "doesn't have favorites" but does anyone really believe it? Little hints of Densi and Neric for folks who like that.


**AN: It just hit me that I've forgotten to put a Disclaimer up twice! I don't own NCIS:LA, it's characters, or anything else remotely recognizable. I definitely can't afford Hetty's Scotch, and I seek no money for this story. This is dedicated to Ambrosia Rush, and Shestarsky, for welcoming me into this fandom with open keyboards. Thanks for the kindess, I hope I'm able to return it ladies. Thank you to my Beta, who made this readable. This is my very first completed story of any type EVER. I'm just a little proud of that!**

"When it rains it pours," the soft deep voice of Sam Hanna reverberated and mingled with the muted sound of the thunder outside.

"I love it!" Deeks said, joy filling his voice. "Yesterday and this morning was the best surf all year."

"Totally!" Eric agreed, with a huge smile.

Kensi threw her head back and let out a dramatic groan. "Eric, please do not talk like that! I'm flashing back to the very first date I had in LA, his name was Kevin Belgrew… a skater boy if ever there was one straight from the Valley born and bred. He showed up a half hour late, stuck me with the bill, and nearly got us busted for possession when he offered me a joint outside the movies."

An angry look settled over Sam's face. "When was this?"

Kensi bit her bottom lip, hoping that her embarrassment didn't cause her to blush. It was in these moments that her dear friend and self-appointed 'big brother' reminded her so much of her father that her eyes would start to burn. "I was seventeen. I ran to a pay phone and called a cab to get home. I don't even think he realized I ditched him."

A particularly loud burst of thunder and a bolt of lightning vibrated through the building. "Wow! That was too close, I better get to OPS and make sure we're cool," Eric said, jogging to the steps.

Hetty appeared out of nowhere. "I've just received word that there will be massive power outages for most of the state. Since it's Friday and the day is nearly done, I suggest you all go home before it gets worse. See that you exercise extreme caution on the roads. I will see you all on Monday as usual."

Deeks threw his arm around Kensi's shoulders. "Come on, Partner I don't trust you to drive in this mess. We'll grab a pizza and veg out."

Kensi gently removed his arm and sighed, "I can't. I promised my mom I'd come over for dinner and we did have plans for the weekend."

A flash of disappointment appeared in his eyes but he smiled brightly. "Then I'll drop you off there. I bet I can get your mom to let me stay for dinner."

"Deeks!" Kensi shrieked. "Were you raised by wolves?"

His lips formed into a cocky smirk, "Something like that. Come on, a man's gotta eat, and it's rude to make your mother wait."

Sam smiled as he watched the young detective drag his partner out of the building. He could tell by Kensi's face that she was thinking, _'When did I lose the control in this relationship?'_ He sympathized. He had lost count of how many times G. had ended up leading him along before he even realized it. He started gathering his things and looked across at his partner. The Special Agent in Charge hadn't noticed the interaction of his team, and he was completely oblivious to the raging storm outside the walls surrounding him. What concerned Sam was that he hadn't acknowledged Hetty at all. Even at his worst moments, Callen never _ever_ ignored Hetty.

"Hey G. did you hear what Hetty said?" Sighing when he didn't get a response, he went up to his partner and grabbed his shoulder.

G. Callen whirled around to face his partner. It was then that Sam noticed he had been listening to something on an iPod. G. yanked the ear-buds out of his ears, and glared at the larger man. "What Sam? I just got a call saying that Riley has gotten a request granted for an early parole hearing. I'm being called to testify, if I don't go over these all files that dirt bag might be back on the streets!" he snarled.

Sam held his breath for a moment and geared up for a fight. This particular case had hit his partner hard; it was one of the first cases they'd ever worked together and one of the only cases he'd seen G. truly crack on. It was nearly inconceivable that the man could have been granted an early parole hearing, but Sam was afraid that his partner and dear friend would go back to that crazy place from five years ago.

"G. it's practically a monsoon out there. Hetty wants us to go home early before half the coast loses power. Riley isn't getting parole it isn't possible." Sam kept his voice very calm, trying to sooth him.

Callen voice grew so low and harsh it was more of a growl than a voice. "We both know he's got powerful friends in the Navy. It was a miracle we were able to stick second degree murder on him." The bitterness that filled his voice seeped into his eyes and twisted his mouth.

Sam crossed his arms and stared hard, this was his _pay-attention-because-I'm only-going-to-say-it-once_ stance. "G. you can't go back to that place."

A sly cold grin broke out on his face. "You're the one who said that it, _'isn't_ _natural'_ that I don't get effected by cases. I was - and am - affected by this one. Be happy, you might make me normal yet."

Sam shook his head and sighed, "Nothing I do or say is going to make you listen is it?"

For a moment some of the stiffness left Callen's body, and his some of the coldness left his eyes. "I always listen to you, I just rarely do what you want me to do." Another clap of thunder boomed. "Go home, Sam. Tuck your children into bed, cuddle them when they get scared, make love to your wife, just get away from here."

"You're welcome to come with me G. You know my baby girl is in love with you."

Callen shook his head, "I'm going to make sure Commander Sean Mark Riley doesn't see the light of day one minute earlier than the maximum sentence he got."

Sam wondered if there would ever come a day when he would prevail in breaching the complicated barriers that his partner had built up against the world. He knew that he had gone further than almost anyone else had ever gotten, but days like today made him feel like he was still on the outside. "Don't get yourself killed going home G."

"I should be saying that to you," Callen replied, a faint half-smile playing on his lips.

Hetty met Sam at the door. "Be extremely careful driving home, Mr. Hanna."

Sam smiled softly and put on his rain coat. "I will, Hetty." He turned to stare at his partner, once again engrossed in front of his laptop. "He's dug his heels in deep this time. I haven't seen him this bad since you went off to Romania."

Hetty patted the younger man's arm and gave him a gentle push to the door. "You leave Mr. Callen to me. This requires a woman's touch."

"Sometimes I think you should be his partner, Hetty."

A wistful expression broke out on her face for a moment but she quickly schooled her expression back to its usual professional persona. "He needs you out there, Sam. You are his anchor, he'll always count on you to have his back no matter how bad things get."

Sam's jaw tightened. "He still doesn't trust me _here _with this."

Sadness filled her eyes. "Let me handle it, Sam. You keep him safe out there, and I'll have your back _here_. Get going now, the storm is getting worse and I don't want to worry about you getting home after the power goes out."

"Good night, Hetty. Take care of him."

Hetty watched as Sam pulled out of the parking lot in his beloved _Challenger_. Satisfied that three members of her most valuable team were squared away, she turned her attention to the remaining three. She walked passed Callen's desk, not pausing, and made her way up to OPS. "Mr. Beale, you and Miss Jones should be on your way."

The young man took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "We're just finishing up, Hetty. I wanted to run some quick checks to make sure we were all set in case of any power surges or other nastiness from the storm." He turned to Nell. "Are we good, Rock Star?"

A bright smile lit up her face. "Picture perfect! Let's get out of here."

"Okay, would you like me to follow you home? It's on my way and I'd feel better knowing you're home safe."

Nell breathed out a long sigh of relief. "I was going to ask you anyway. I hate storms like this, they terrify me. I'll have to run to my car, I didn't bring a raincoat."

A huge gust of wind and another booming crash of thunder made the building vibrate. "You can have my coat, it will keep you warmer. We don't have much time; this thing is almost right on top of us."

"Goodbye, Hetty. We'll see you on Monday," the pair said in unison.

"Drive carefully, my dears."

Hetty lingered in OPS thinking of the best way to approach Callen. She had prayed very hard for years that this particular case would never come back to haunt him. Unfortunately, that prayer had a different answer. She knew what to do in this situation. She'd lost count of how many times a mission or a case weighed heavily on one of her agents and how many times she had guided them through it. She worried about each agent under her care from the moment they came into her charge to the moment they retired, or were lost.

With Callen however, it felt different. She had been worrying, watching, protecting, praying, and hoping for him for nearly thirty-seven years. Her determination to keep him safe from the people who wanted him dead grew stronger with every passing year, but it was only until he finally came to her at NCIS that it was overtaken by the determination to help him heal from the terrible scars that littered his soul.

For the most part, she didn't need to comfort him about the job. She had taken steps to determine if Kristen Donnelly had gotten pregnant with his child. Once she was assured that the boy didn't belong to him, she let the matter rest and never spoke to him about it. She offered words of encouragement during the search for Dom, just to reassure him that he was handling his team in an excellent way.

That's why she felt slightly out of her depth now. This case had been under Lara's purview; she had called half-hysterical because Callen had disappeared for a full three weeks, leaving his request for leave on her desk. The only thing Hetty could do was use some of her more devious methods to find him, and order him to return to the fold. She was about to enter unfamiliar territory with him tonight and the possibilities of making things worse weighed heavily on her.

Sighing as the rain began pouring down even harder, she pulled herself out of her thoughts and made her way to her office. She passed Callen seeing his mouth formed into a hard line, and his jaw clenched so tight that she feared he might break a tooth. She went into her desk and took out a ring of keys, and then she went to the burn room and then unlocked a secret cupboard.

G. sat typing furiously, giving both Eric and Nell a run for their money for speed and accuracy when Hetty's distinctive custom perfume and that day's tea filled his nose. It wasn't often that she got so close to him that she was literally in his face, and surprise made him turn to her. "I'm just going to stay here tonight, Hetty. Drive safely, and call me when you get home."

Her lips quirked up at his concern. "Nice try, Mr. Callen but I will leave when you leave."

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw twitched; he turned back to the keyboard and resumed typing. "I guess you get the couch, good thing I brought the bedroll."

"According to the weather reports we only have about an hour before there are massive power outages all over the coast. What will you do then?"

He rolled his eyes annoyed at the less-than-impressive argument. He knew she wasn't trying to win this one. "We have very powerful generators. You'd better hurry, you have a conference call with SecNav and Vance in fifteen minutes. Make sure they treat Nate right."

Her lips pursed together, and her eyes narrowed in sharp disapproval. "That information is far above your pay grade, Mr. Callen."

He shrugged, put his ear buds back in and turned up the volume on his iPod. Hetty sighed and moved to her office with her precious cargo. She would have to pencil in a long chat with her agent about respecting _her _boundaries. Her phone rang, and she took a deep breath and prepared herself for the inevitable battles of agency politics. She missed the days when her biggest adversaries were KGB assassins.

"Good day, Mr. Secretary, Director Vance… shall we begin?"

Three hours later, the southern coast of California was in chaos due to power outages. To make matters worse, the torrential downpour showed no sign of abating. The building of the OSP was quiet but still alive, thanks to its generators. Even so, its interior was mostly dark, illuminated by only two desk lamps. The only sounds were Callen's typing and Hetty's soft footfalls. She set a bottle and two glasses down on his desk, and sat in the chair next to him.

When he didn't acknowledge her, she carefully raised her hand into his peripheral vision and tapped him on the shoulder. He stiffened for a moment but took out his ear buds. "Time for a break Mr. Callen. I've just spent three hours in a meeting that made three months getting chased by cartel soldiers in the jungles of Columbia look like a vacation. Join me for a drink."

He winced in sympathy. "Is Nate all right?"

"Why don't you tell me?" she answered, a sharp tone filling her voice.

The young man leaned back in his chair, raised his eyebrows, and smirked. "I can't take a break right now, Hetty. I have to finish this."

"Mr. Callen you've re-written your testimony for the parole hearing five times. I'm certain that by now you've crammed in every detail that could possibly exist to keep former Commander Riley locked away."

Hate flashed into his eyes when he heard the name. He clenched his hands into fists without realizing it. "You don't know this guy. I can't let him see the light of day if I can stop it."

She gently took his hands in hers, something that she rarely did when he was awake; she had never seen him so badly affected by a case before. "You need to step back. Have a drink with me and then look at this again."

He stared down at their joined hands, and he wondered if she knew how much he loved her. He had told her once that the fact that she cared about her agents was one of the things he loved about her, but it was really so much more. He hoped she knew, because he didn't know how to tell her. "It isn't that Scotch from Iraq is it?"

"Lord NO!" she replied her face twisting into pure disgust. "I happen to have a bottle of 1926 _Macallan _Whiskey that I have never wanted to share with anyone before."

His eyes went wide, "Why would you want to share a bottle of whiskey worth fifty-four thousand dollars with me?"

"Who else would I share this with, Mr. Callen? Mr. Hanna prefers wine and Champagne, Ms. Blye prefers rum and Tequila, Mr. Deeks likes everything but wouldn't truly appreciate this, and Mr. Beale and Miss Jones don't like hard liquor unless it's blended in a cocktail. You are the only one who would truly appreciate this bottle of spirits."

A hint of a smile started pulling at the corners of his mouth. "By all means, pour the drinks."

Hetty did so, and smiled as she watched him drink it properly. Only a fool would knock back the drink like it was happy hour. She had a constant source of pride because _her _Mr. Callen was no fool. "Enjoy this, Mr. Callen. We only get one."

His eyes closed in bliss as he swallowed the first sip of the smoky, dark amber liquid. He needed to savor it, so he set the glass down. "That's better than I thought it could be."

"I'm pleased you like it," she said, taking a sip of her own drink.

The extreme tension that had plagued him for hours slowly started receding from his body. "We need to talk about a team issue."

Hetty raised her eyebrows at the unexpected topic. "Regarding what, Mr. Callen?"

"Not what, who. If Eric doesn't man-up and ask Nell on an actual date soon I'll have to have a talk with him. You don't want that happening, because I'll say something that will ruin everything for them. You know I'm the last person on earth who should give anyone advice on love. However, if something doesn't happen soon those two will screw it up anyway or spontaneously combust. You've got to work your magic and give it a nudge."

A full blown smile broke out on her face and her eyes sparkled with amusement. "How do you know they haven't been on a date?"

His expression morphed into the universal _'please don't insult my intelligence' _look. "Hetty, I might not date much but I'm not so hopeless that I don't know when two people as good together as them are dating. They need a nudge. It's starting to affect their work, and I'm not the guy to do it."

Hetty nodded in agreement. "I'll give the matter my attention."

"Thanks."

"Be careful, Mr. Callen. People might discover you're a romantic at heart."

A sly grin graced his lips. "Nah you're an expert at keeping my secrets. What's one more?"

For a moment a heavy stab of guilt lanced through her. She took another sip of her whiskey, hoping Callen didn't notice. "I do hope the storm will pass soon. I dislike driving in such weather."

"I thought you weren't leaving until I do."

Hetty sighed and took off her glasses. "I'm not."

He tilted his chin up and his voice became harder. "I told you, Hetty I'm not going home tonight. I need to get this done."

The older woman suppressed a sigh. She hadn't really believed that some witty banter and a drink would fix this, but she had to use proven methods first. "I'm not familiar with the Riley case. It was done in Macy's time. Perhaps you can enlighten me as to the details."

Callen frowned and took another long sip of whiskey - the adrenaline in his system was muting the flavors. "As I remember it you were the one Macy had track me down when it was over. You're telling me she didn't tell you why?"

"No, Mr. Callen she didn't tell me why you disappeared. I was under the impression that she didn't know why herself. Why don't you tell me?"

The urge to hit something washed over him like a flood. He had walked straight into that and he was not happy about it. "Okay, fine… Commander Sean Mark Riley, killed Petty Officer First Class Michael Eugene Foster, when the kid discovered that he was embezzling over ten million dollars from the Navy."

Hetty sat back in the chair and toed off her shoes making herself comfortable. "That seems like a fairly standard case, Mr. Callen. Forgive me but you don't typically respond in such a manner to cases like these."

'_When will I learn that I can't win against Hetty?' _he thought to himself. "I got attached to the victim," he replied in a flat, professional tone.

"How?"

Callen looked at the tumbler of whiskey next to his hand, wishing it was cheap stuff that he could knock back. He sighed, realizing that she had him exactly where she wanted him. "Foster was a foster kid," he replied grimacing at the irony of his name. "His mom was a crack-whore, father unknown. He grew up in a series of hell-holes from the very bottom dregs of the system. The minute he aged out, he got a job. Later, he took two of his foster brothers out. Davy age six, Adrian age four. He got laid off and was terrified CPS would take the boys. He made a bad choice. He started being a wheel man for a local chop shop. While he was on a job, his partner killed a cop. He ran straight to the police and turned himself in. Because of that, the judge made sure that the boys were taken care of and gave Foster a choice: five years or join the Navy. He chose the Navy. He was stationed at Pendleton and became Commander Riley's Yeoman."

Sadness engulfed Hetty as she listened to his voice grow more intense. It cracked in places, and the hate with which he said Riley's name was palpable. "I'm not surprised you identified with him, Mr. Callen. Petty Officer Foster sounds like he was an exceptional young man, as are _you_!"

"He was better than me, Hetty!" he growled. "That kid was only twenty-two when he died, he had two sons ages ten and eight! He volunteered on the weekends in his local hospital in the pediatric ward, working with terminal patients. He performed his duties with diligence, perseverance, and good humor. He was well liked, and he had a beautiful fiancée. When he discovered the embezzling, he went to Riley right away. Foster reported it and trusted his Commanding Officer to do the right thing. That pathetic excuse for a man slit his throat. He doesn't _deserve_ to see the light of day ever again!"

Hetty took his face in her hands. "Listen to me, you put him away. You got justice for that young man. They're not going to release him."

Callen covered her hands with his. "It should have been first degree murder, Hetty. Unfortunately, Riley was married to an Admiral's niece. He swore Foster came at him with the knife first and I couldn't prove he didn't. Riley's brother-in-law just won a seat in the state Senate, hence this parole hearing. I can't let him win. Those boys deserve better. That poor young girl who loved him enough to accept his past, and love his boys as if they were her own, deserves better. I couldn't look at myself if he gets out."

Hetty let go of his face and poured him another drink. "Drink up, you deserve it."

When he reached for the glass he noticed his hands were shaking. "You know, I'm really glad you're on my side. I shudder to think what you could make me say if you were my enemy, Hetty."

A fond smile broke out on her lips. "I wasn't interrogating you my dear boy."

He took a long sip of the whiskey and rubbed his eyes. "I know, that's what scares me." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm so tired, I think I could actually sleep."

"Eighty-six year old whiskey and a crash after all of the adrenaline seeping into your bloodstream will do that to you, Mr. Callen. You're coming home with me tonight."

"Hetty," he said, his voice tinged with a faint warning.

She looked at him with the expression that put the fear of god into the most powerful people (and bad guys) on earth. "No arguments, Mr. Callen. I'm not giving you a choice this time. Tonight you sleep in a real bed!"

He felt his eyes get heavier and he groaned. "I can't drive like this, not in this weather."

"I have no intention of letting you drive, now let's get going," she replied putting on her shoes again.

For the third and hopefully final time, he had been defeated by Hetty. Slowly he stood up, wincing when he heard and felt a thousand tiny little pops and pulls spreading fire through his muscles. On rainy days the aches from the years of strain his body had endured intensified, making him wonder how much time he had left before he gave out. It wasn't something he dwelled on, though. He had the firm belief that when it was his time to die, he would die. The how didn't matter to him.

Hetty got her purse, her coat, and put the whiskey back in its safe place. She met Callen in the garage and led him to the _Hummer_. "Considering the severity of the storm, this is probably the safest car to use. I believe Sam named this one Arnold."

Callen smirked. "Don't tell him I said this, but it was stupid then and it's stupid now."

Hetty climbed into the driver's seat and turned on the car. She popped in her favorite Bach CD as Callen placed his go-bag in the back seat. "Will the music bother you?" she asked as he got in and put on his seat belt.

He shook his head no and she pulled out of the garage. Mercifully the wind had died down, so even though the rain was still coming down in sheets, visibility was much better. There was very little traffic on the roads apart from road service vehicles and the local LEO's. It seemed that even the natives of LA had decided it paid to be sensible in such conditions. Normally he would have been focusing on the rout, trying to determine which house Hetty was taking him too. This time his mind was still back with Riley and the parole hearing.

He laid his head back on his seat and closed his eyes. "Hetty, what am I going to do?" he whispered, desperation filling his voice.

"Tell the parole board exactly what you told me, Mr. Callen. There are times when the heart trumps reason and evidence. That's a good thing, just speak from your heart and I know that they will listen to you."

They didn't talk the rest of the way to the house. It was her small bungalow, the first one he'd ever found. He liked it the best. Her larger, more ornate houses were too imposing, too much like the professional mask she wore. He loved the public Hetty, but he adored the private Hetty. She pulled into her garage and turned off the car. They both got out and Callen took his shoes off at the welcome mat.

They entered into the gourmet kitchen, designed specifically for her small stature that somehow still exuded a homey charm. "Are you hungry, Mr. Callen?"

He rubbed his heavy blue eyes and failed to stop the yawn in the back of his throat from escaping. "I'm sorry, Hetty. I have just enough left in me for a quick shower. You know me, I'll sleep for an hour at most and then spend the rest of the night puttering around."

Hetty smiled gently and hung up her coat. "Maybe you could take a look at my garbage disposal while you're at it."

"Make a list for me and leave it on the counter. Is it still the first bedroom on the right?"

"Indeed it is."

Callen shuffled his way to the guest room. Hetty put on some water for some chamomile tea and got out the cups. She heard the shower running and knew she had ten minutes. She went into the master bathroom and retrieved her bottle of Melatonin. Old age was not for the weak, and one of her first major difficulties became acute insomnia. She took Melatonin regularly to ensure she had a healthful and restful sleep.

After his shooting, when Callen had been released from the hospital, he staunchly refused to take any form of sleeping pills or narcotics. He'd stubbornly relied on only the most basic of pain relievers. Fortunately, she had convinced him that sleep was vital for the healing process, and assured him that the supplement was neither habit forming, nor would it dull his wits. She knew that five milligrams would help him get at least four straight hours of sleep and that he needed it badly. She padded back to the kitchen and placed a tiny tablet in the pill crusher she had. She placed the fine powder in a blue tea-cup and began brewing the tea.

Callen got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around himself, and began to brush his teeth. He truly couldn't believe he was here and couldn't figure out why he hadn't fought her harder. Of course, any sane person would agree it was foolish to fight Hetty when she wasn't going to take no for an answer. He wasn't any sane person. In fact, several highly respected psychologists in the country were certain that he was quite insane, and even he wasn't sure one way or the other.

After rinsing his toothbrush and cleaning out the sink, he sighed. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered when he would start to look as old as he felt. Digging through his go-bag, he took out a pair of boxer briefs and put them on. Then he padded out into the bedroom. He found a steaming cup of chamomile on his nightstand with a post it note saying, _"drink me._" He smiled to himself and drank it quickly, letting the warmth and sweetness seep into him. When he laid down on the soft mattress and was enveloped in a warm quilt, he let out a long contented sigh. Before sleep overtook him, he was vaguely aware that this was one of the very few moments in his life when he felt perfectly safe.

After making the tea, and setting a cup in Callen's room, Hetty made herself an omelet and sat in her living room by the fire. Her heart ached for the young man currently residing in her guest room. She was not a woman who believed in living her life with regrets, but it is impossible to live the life she lived without obtaining at least one. She had two major regrets, both of which would be a part of her for as long as she lived, and both of which centered on G. Callen.

The first regret was that she had obeyed orders when her superiors had refused to allow her to meet Clara and pull her and her children out of Romania. If she had only developed the courage to disobey sooner, Clara and Amy could have been alive today. She would never forgive herself for that betrayal. The second regret was that she didn't immediately adopt Callen the moment she found him. At the time, she had convinced herself that no court would ever give him to her. She wasn't- and had never been - married. Her job was completely incompatible with raising a child. No judge in his right mind would ever agree to it.

She compounded this idea with the theory that she would be the absolute worst mother any child could have. She had deluded herself with these notions so thoroughly that she watched him go through thirty-seven homes. Each time she had repeated to herself that it was better than anything she could give him and that she would find him a real home before it was too late. It wasn't until she had told him everything she knew about his past that she realized how terribly wrong she had been.

He had been so hurt that she'd feared she had lost him. The idea was enough to terrify her in a way she'd never experienced. She nearly burst into tears when he came in the morning of her first full day back and handed her a bouquet of wildflowers with a note scribbled on a napkin in Russian saying, _"Welcome home." _She dried those flowers and kept them in a vase in her bedroom. The napkin had a permanent home in her desk at the office.

Once she finished her meager supper, she put the dish in the dishwasher and decided to check on her guest. Her light steps always silent carried her to the room. She carefully opened the door and crept in. A shaft of moonlight came through the window spilling over his face and shoulders. She went up to his bedside and smiled when she saw him resting peacefully. In the six years since they had first 'met,' she had watchedhim sleep countless times, whether naturally or drug-induced in a hospital. He looked so young that it took her breath away.

In that moment she couldn't help but beg God to give her some sign that he knew how much she loved him. Every time he left her sight she wondered if she would run out of chances to tell him. Tears flooded her eyes and she gave into an impulse that had taunted her every moment since he'd first walked into her office in San Diego with that cocky strut and confident smirk. She bent down and lightly pressed her lips on his forehead. She froze for a moment expecting him to bolt up and attack. When hedidn't, she breathed an internal sigh of relief. She stood there, knowing she could say the words right now and get them off her chest, but decided that doing so would be cowardly. He deserved those words fully awake and when she wasn't motivated by guilt.

Instead she whispered, "sleep well my boy, tomorrow is a new day." Then sheleft room as quietly as she had entered.

The next morning, she entered her kitchen to find a freshly brewed pot of coffee, a pot of oatmeal on the stove, and a note on her island. She chuckled, thinking that Sam would have a stroke if he knew his partner could prepare proper oatmeal. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the island. The storm had left a gigantic mess outside. She sighed, knowing she'd have to arrange for landscapers to clean up all of her yards. It was going to be a beastly expense. She picked up the note hastily scrawled on the back of the To-Do list she'd left for him. She turned it over, saw every little chore crossed off, and then read the note.

"_A few big tree branches came down in the back. I went to go borrow a chainsaw. I'll be back in an hour. Eat breakfast."_

_Love Callen_

Her fingers gently traced over the letters and she sighed happily. It appeared this weekend was shaping up to be one of the best she ever had. Her boy was staying a while. She would try and spoil him a bit while he was in the mood for company. Then she returned her attention back to the note. "Why did he write it in French?" she asked herself out loud.

Finis


End file.
